


The Real KVP

by sinspiration



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Depression, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Kent Parson/Happiness, M/M, Suicidal Thoughts, Therapy, This is gonna be a wild ride guys, bi-polar character, swoops is troy now idk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-14
Updated: 2017-07-14
Packaged: 2018-12-02 05:47:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11503029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinspiration/pseuds/sinspiration
Summary: Kent makes the decision at one am on a perfectly average day. He’d stumbled home, riding the high of winning a game that’d gone into OT and then the celebration dinner with the team afterward. Gotten his shoes off, dropped his duffel, said hi to Kit, went into the kitchen for a glass of water. And then he’d broken down sobbing for absolutely no reason.





	The Real KVP

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sweetspark](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweetspark/gifts).



> And here it is, in all it's glory. Kent Parson gets happiness (and therapy).
> 
> TW: Mentions of suicide, suicide idealization, mentions of drug use, insinuated sexual assault (this ends well I promise)
> 
> For [vanilla-twilights](http://vanilla-twilights.tumblr.com/) on tumblr, because amazing people are amazing.

 

Kent makes the decision at one am on a perfectly average day. He’d stumbled home, riding the high of winning a game that’d gone into OT and then the celebration dinner with the team afterward. Gotten his shoes off, dropped his duffel, said hi to Kit, went into the kitchen for a glass of water. And then he’d broken down sobbing for absolutely no reason.

It hadn’t been the first time.

 _This_ time he makes a decision and, perhaps finally, discreetly looks around for a therapist in the area.

He goes through three before he ends up finding one he doesn’t despise right off the bat. Patricia Wright, a heavyset no-nonsense black woman who still has kindness in her eyes. She doesn’t come off condescending--actually reminds her of his 6th grade English teacher. The one who’d tricked him into reading by disguising essays as really long word problems. He still wishes he had thanked her for all the time she’d spent on him, given him, before she’d passed from breast cancer.

Anyway. Patricia Wright. She makes him talk about literally anything and occasionally interjects with questions or comments, but mostly she just makes him talk. She doesn’t know a thing about hockey, so he spends a lot of time trying to explain bits and pieces of the game, if only so she can better understand half of what he talks about. 

Talking is hard. And he doesn’t like doing it, doesn’t like digging deep because there’s nothing good there, _he’s_ nothing good that deep down. It doesn’t help either. Doesn’t make him feel better or like he’s “healing” or whatever the fuck is supposed to happen. He still hates himself.

He fires her twice in the first five months, only to call her each time, crying, a few hours later. He’s desperate. She’s his last hope and he does _like_ her, almost feels like she maybe gets him. 

He fights the urge to fire her for the third time when she suggests that he see a psychiatrist, but he doesn’t because he’s learned his lesson. It’s harder to come crawling back and contact her than it is to sit through sessions. And he also knows that if he leaves a third time he won’t have it in him to go back and then where would he be?

“No meds.” He says it with finality. He is not taking medication. That road doesn’t lead down anything good. “No meds.” He’s fine. He’s functional. He’s got hockey and his teams and he’s able to work and able to play and, sometimes, even to hang out with some of his boys. He’s got Kit, he’s got Troy. It’s enough.

He’s fine. “No meds.”

He goes for a shopping spree to make himself feel better, then feels sick about the stuff and donates it all the next day. He tries to make himself eat because he needs to, but it’s so much work. Troy asks him if something’s wrong. His trainer says he’s losing too much weight.

Kent is fine.

Then, one day, staring out the window of his penthouse, he wonders what it would be like if he just jumped.

It terrifies him, that the thought even crossed his mind. He makes an emergency appointment with Patricia. She asks if he needs to be put on suicide watch, if he has friends he can call, if he thinks he needs hospitalization.

“No hospitals,” he says panicking. 

But he agrees to trying medication.

The psychiatrist Patricia recommends is a holistic one, who believes in nutrition and herbals and vitamins and shit and to be honest, that’s kind of what he’s hoping for even if he doesn’t believe it. But she also says that there is a time and place for commercial medication and suggests Vraylar. He maybe breaks down. 

“I don’t want to take meds.” He sounds so fucking young it’s stupid. “Please, you don’t understand.”

She tells him that Vraylar is a mood-stabilizer. That it’s non-addictive. That he’d know if it were working inside of a week.

He swallows and sucks it up and takes the sample packet, says he’ll try. He takes one of the pills that evening. He shakes as he tears it out of the foil, puts it in his mouth, gulps down water. Tries not to burst into tears. Tries to distract himself. Goes to the couch and pets Kit and ends up falling asleep there.

When he wakes up the next day, he goes through his entire morning routine before he realizes that he hadn’t had a single passing thought about hating himself. It stuns him. He has to spend a few seconds breathing and--and freaking out over the fact that he’s not really freaking out.

He goes in for practice later and watches everyone, wondering if they notice. If there is something to notice. Or maybe he was just that good at hiding?

Either way, it makes it easier to eat. A few more weeks go by. He sees Patricia twice a week when he’s in town, and on skype when he’s not. He gets a script for Vraylar and downs a little white capsule every night before he goes to bed.

 

-

 

“So you look happier,” Troy says one day, brushing shoulders with Kent as they leave the ice.

Kent tries not to hunch up. He’s been _feeling_ happier lately. And it’s weird, because he doesn’t know why it’s so different--nothing much has changed in his life. It’s still the same routine, same game, same people. But it’s like he’s cleaned a sheen of grease off of the glass that is his worldview.

But it’s the meds. He’s being medicated. It’s not him. He’s not good enough, on his own.

“Things have been good,” he says. It’s true. It’s no big deal.

Troy smiles at him. “Want to come over tonight? Game’s on.”

Kent rolls his eyes, but he’s grinning now. “Always with the basketball. For fuck’s sake, why didn’t you just become one of those?” It’s an easy old back-and-forth.

Troy ruffles his hair. He’s one of maybe three people who’s allowed to do that. “Couldn’t keep me off the ice, being better’n you.”

Kent pushes him away. “Right, sure. How come you’re just the _assist_ to my goals then, huh?” 

Troy shrugs and smiles. He never rises to Kent’s bait. “What can I say? We make a good team.” He holds out his fist.

Kent bumps it. “Yeah, we do.” 

 

-

 

Kent does go over to Troy’s. They get a couple pizzas, one barbecue chicken, the other veggie, and Troy breaks out a six-pack. They watch the game sprawled over Troy’s ridiculous plush couch, eating and drinking and occasionally bickering. because Kent can’t help but poke fun at things and if there’s one thing Troy is willing to argue about, it’s basketball.

Just as the game finishes, there is a loud crack then boom of thunder, followed by the sound of an absolutely torrential downpour.

Kent and Troy exchange a look. There’s a reason why _first the desert, then the flood_ is a saying in Vegas. Even if it doesn’t usually mean rain anymore.

Kent gets up to squint out the window. “Fuck, I am not driving in this.”

“You’re not driving anyway,” Troy says. “Three of those beers were yours.”

“For fuck’s sake--”

Troy crosses his arms. Then he smirks. “I’ll just stand in front of the door. Then you won’t be able to get out.”

Kent snorts. “Funny.”

“Yup. Anyway, which guestroom you want?”

“The white one, duh.” It’s basically Kent’s second bedroom now. He’s fairly positive that Troy doesn’t put anyone else up in it unless he really needs to.

 

-

 

Kent still panics sometimes. He can’t help it and he fucking hates it, but especially when he’s around other people--that’s the worst. Too closed in, too crowded, too loud--exactly the reason he surrounds himself with people in the first place. Like maybe if there are enough in his space, he won’t mind that no one’s touching him. Or that so many people are.

He’s at a club, out on his own just wanting to lose himself a little bit because he still has _those_ days and he sees a girl, under the lights, take a pill and he full-on shuts down. Barely forces himself off the floor and into a corner. 

He can’t go home. Can’t be by himself. It’s too late to call Patricia. _You have friends,_ she’d said. _People who care about you. Let them help you when you need the help._

Fingers shaking, he pulls out his phone and dials Troy, because he’s the person Kent most recently contacted and his number’s on the top of the list. Usually is.

“Parser, what the fuck? It’s the middle of the night.”

“I’m sorry,” Kent manages. “Sorry, I--” he knew this was a stupid idea, asking for help isn’t “I--”

“Kent,” Troy sounds a lot more awake now. “What’s wrong?”

“I--there was a girl, she took something, I saw her.”

“Is she okay?”

“I think so. Probably. She was dancing.” He’s babbling, but all he can see is an empty bottle of pills and it’s hard to see anything at all through tears anyway “I’m sorry,” he whispers “I didn’t mean to--I’m sorry.”

“Where are you?” There’s background noise now, like Troy is fumbling with something. “Give me an address.”

Kent presses a hand over his eyes. Tries to breathe. “It’s okay, I’m fine, I’m sorry. I’m fine. I didn’t mean to bother you.”

“Kent, where the fuck are you right now?”

Kent caves, because he’s weak and he sucks the good out of people. Troy tells him to wait somewhere safe and that he’s leaving now, he’ll be there as soon as he can.

He shuffles outside the club. Takes a seat on the curb and looks up at the sky. The stars are there, even if they’re dim and hard to see. Like a tired neon sign.

Kent is tired too.

-

 

“Okay,” Troy says, once he’s parked and is literally standing in front of Kent, “Let’s go.” He holds out his hand.

Kent doesn't take it. Shakes his head. “You shouldn’t have come. I’m fine. I’m sorry I called you, you didn’t have to--”

“Come on,” Troy says, not unkindly. He grabs Kent’s hand and hauls him to his feet. “Let’s go.”

 

-

 

“This shouldn’t happen,” Kent says furiously, once he’s back at Troy’s place. “I’m-I’m _better.”_

“You’re the best,” Troy says, leading him to the white guestroom. “How much did you have to drink?”

He doesn't remember. Some, probably. Enough that it’s a problem for Troy. But he’s not drunk. He’s jittery. “She took a pill,” he blurts out. “He took pills. And now I take them too.” He took his dose before he went out. Because he needed to take it every night. It was supposed to help. He was _better._

Troy freezes at his back. “Okay,” he says evenly. “What’d you take?”

Kent shakes his head. “Not--no, I--they’re…” he swallows. “I’m not crazy. And I’m not going to take too many. I w-wouldn’t do that to anyone.”

But Troy is still looking at him. “Kent, what’d you take? Do I need to get you to a hospital?”

“No!” Kent shrinks back. “No, I-I’m supposed to. They make me better. I don’t want to go to a hospital, please.”

“Alright, Kent, alright. No hospitals right now. Get into bed, okay? I’m going to grab you some water.”

Kent nods and goes, because Troy is telling him to. He pulls off his shirt and struggles out of his jeans and crawls under the covers. Feels miserable. Then Troy returns and Kent feels even more miserable.

“I’m sorry,” he says again, holding the bottle of water in his hands. “I’m really fucking sorry.”

Troy nods. “Okay. Why don’t you apologize to me in the morning, and then you can explain what’s going on.”

Kent supposes he owes him that much. Owes him a lot more. “Yeah. Okay.”

Troy brushes the hair off Kent’s forehead. “Sleep well, okay?”

“...yeah.”

 

-

 

He wakes up feeling marginally less like death, remembers everything with stark clarity, and viciously wishes he was anywhere else in the world, that he hadn’t bothered Troy. What’s he going to think now?

And what the fuck Vraylar, Kent thought it was _working._

He gets out of bed, goes to the bathroom, puts his clothes back on. Thinks about sneaking out and just taking a Lyft home. But he also needs to thank Troy. And apologize to him. Again.

He’s a coward though, so he kind of plans to just sneak out. Except when he leaves the room, Troy is waiting for him on the couch, with no way for Kent to escape.

“Hi,” Kent says, swallowing.

“Hey.” Troy pats the seat next to him. “Breakfast is happening, but I think maybe talking should happen first.”

Right. Yeah. Kent goes to sit next to him. Troy scoots in closer and slings an arm around Kent’s shoulders. Kent takes a shuddering breath. He hates being touched, but he also craves it. Troy’s touches are safe. Warm.

“So what’s going on?” Troy asks gently.

“I’m taking meds,” Kent blurts out. “Real ones. Not--not...it’s called Vraylar. It’s a mood stabilizer. It isn’t addictive. And I’m not taking too much. It’s been helping me.”

Troy squeezes him. “Hey, that’s great.”

“Y-yeah.”

“And yesterday?”

Kent sighs. “Drank too much I guess. And I saw this girl. Uh. Drugs and stuff freak me out.” They didn’t used to. “I--I knew someone who overdosed.” 

“I’m sorry.” Troy knows he’s talking about Jack.

“He’s okay now.” He won’t let Kent into his life, but Kent doesn’t deserve to be in it. Knows how many mistakes he’s made, especially now that he can think clearly most days.

“That’s good.”

“Yeah.”

They drift into silence. Kent leans into Troy. It’s comforting. He doesn’t want to move.

This is so far out from what buddies do for each other. Then again, Troy is probably his best friend. It’s different. It’s allowed to be different.

Eventually Troy shifts. “Come on,” he says. “We should have breakfast.”

“If you don’t mind waiting, I can make pancakes,” Kent offers. Kent’s pancakes are the stuff of legend.

Troy grins. “Awesome. Sure.”

It also means Kent can spend more time around him, in his home. Kent nods and they head into the kitchen.

There are some things he should maybe think about.

 

-

 

“I think I might have someone I like,” Kent says, feeling like he’s five.

“Someone new?” Patricia asks.

Kent nods. “Yeah. It’s...it’s new. He’s not new, I mean, I’ve known him for a long time. But it’s--it’s not Jack.” She knows who Troy is; Kent’s certainly talked about him enough. But he can’t say his name. It makes it too real.

She nods, waiting for him to keep talking.

He sighs. “It’s freaking me out.”

“Which part?”

“That I know him. That I like him. He’s someone else I could ruin.”

“You’ve known him this long so far, and nothing bad’s happened.”

“It’s different. I--no one’s out in hockey. No one. We’re the most homophobic sport there is. It’s career death.”

“Do you feel the need to come out? Do you want to?”

“It’s not about that. I don’t mind if it’s _me_ but he’s--if anyone found out. Even if we weren’t together, but if anyone found out I liked him, he’d be dragged down too.”

“Does he like you back?”

He opens his mouth to say _of course not_ and stops to think, tries to push down the self-deprecation. “I don’t know.” She waits. He goes on. “I mean. He’s one of my best friends. He’s there for me a lot. Always. He’s always there if I need him. I don’t know if that means more or if that’s just because we’re good friends. Sometimes that’s all there is.”

“Has he done anything that might make you feel like things are reciprocated?”

Kent shrugs.

“Do you think there might be something?”

“I don’t know. I like him. I’m probably projecting.”

She looks at him. “Do you really believe that?”

Kent fidgets in his chair. “I really don’t know. It’s not like I can ask. If he doesn’t, I’d screw everything up.”

“And if he does?”

Kent looks away.

-

 

“Okay,” Troy says one afternoon after practice, slinging a heavy arm around Kent’s shoulders. “I’ve decided it’s movie night. Your place or mine?”

“What the hell?” Kent laughs. “I don’t get a say in this?”

“You’ve been mopey lately, so nope. We can watch _Die Hard.”_

“We have seen that movie literally a dozen times,” Kent points out, even if it’s his favorite and he could watch it a dozen more.

Troy shrugs. “I don’t mind. And anyway, it’s your favorite movie. Since you’re a weirdo.”

“You fucker! I’ll have you know that _Die Hard_ is the epitome of cinema.”

“Right. So your place or mine?” 

“Dinner’s on you if we do this,” Kent says.

“Course it is. It was my idea. So your place then? I can say hi to Kit.”

Kent caves. He tends to, with Troy. He’s been noticing that he does, too. “Sure, that sounds good.”

Troy smiles. It makes Kent go warm, like he’s done something right. Shit. “Cool. I’ll meet you there.”

 

-

 

Kent has been trying to act like everything is normal since he made the realization that he likes Troy...a lot. But he can’t help taking his touches when they’re offered, leaning into him, closing his eyes when Troy brushes his hair aside. Savoring.

He’s worrying himself. He’s not being subtle. Troy is going to notice something. And Kent doesn’t know what would happen, then.

He doesn’t want to lose any more people.

Once they finish eating the loads of Chinese food Troy had picked up for them, he turns to Kent, expression serious. Something cold settles in Kent’s gut.

“What’s with that look?” he says, trying for light.

“Kent, I--” Troy rubs the back of his neck. “There’s something I think we need to talk about.”

Kent still hates talking. Troy _likes_ to, for some reason. He’s always asking Kent about how he’s feeling and shit. Notices when Kent isn’t doing so hot. Maybe has been noticing more, and Kent fights down panic. “Yeah? What?”

Troy seems to steel himself, takes a deep breath, and Kent only gets more worried. “Troy? Is uh, is everything okay?”

“I hope so.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means I have something I want to tell you, but that it’s really, really hard.”

Kent swallows. _I don’t want to do this anymore. I want off your line. You need to keep your hands to yourself._

Then he backtracks. Troy invited himself over. He’s said numerous times that he and Kent make a great team on the ice. Troy’s the one who usually instigates the touches. It’s probably none of those things. “Is it bad?” he tries, feeling things out.

“God, I hope not.”

“Is it...is it about us?”

Troy’s fingers tap out a rhythm on his thigh. “Yeah.”

“...should I keep on with the twenty questions, or are you going to tell me?”

Troy smiles weakly. “The questions are honestly easier to answer. But no I--fuck, I don’t know why this is so hard. I...I want to keep doing this sort of stuff with you.”

Kent frowns. “Nothing’s stopping you.”

“No, I mean. That’s what I wanted to say.”

Kent doesn’t get it. They hang out all the time. They basically live in each other’s pockets both on and off the road. 

And then he actually catches up. “You like me,” he realizes.

Troy swallows. “Yeah. Yeah, I really, really do. I’m-I’m sorry.”

_“Why?”_

Troy sighs, “Kent, do you want an itemized list, or should I just go in alphabetical order?”

“No, not--I mean...you’re sorry?”

Troy shifts. “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.” Which is right about when Kent realizes that Troy’s arm isn’t around his shoulders like it usually is. “But I thought it was about time you knew.”

Troy likes him. Troy _likes_ him. Troy likes _him._ Even if Kent sort of suspected, he can’t really believe it. But Troy is waiting, and with every passing second he looks worse and worse and that--no--

“I like you,” Kent manages. “I like you a lot. I was worried about it--bothering you. Or making trouble for you. But I...yeah. It’s not. You’re not. It’s not...I’m glad. That you--” he’s messing this up, fuck. “I--” 

Troy slowly reaches out. Cups Kent cheek. Kent closes his eyes. Opens them again to see Troy looking at him with the softest expression on his face. “Can I kiss you?” he asks.

Kent nods. That’s easy. It’s easy.

Troy leans in and brushes his lips against Kent’s, a whisper. Kent’s the one who reaches out and deepens the kiss. 

Troy’s arms come up to hold him. He kisses like Kent is something precious.

 

-

 

“Troy kissed me.”

Patricia smiles. “That sounds like it was a good thing.”

“It was. I--he really likes me.” He says it with a sense of wonder. “I like someone who likes me back.”

“It sounds like Troy would be good for you.”

“He’s already been good for me. He uh, he asked. To kiss me.” A lot of people in Kent’s life hadn’t asked. 

Kent doesn’t like to be touched without permission.

Patricia nods. “Did anything else happen?”

Kent shakes his head. “No. Kind of? We uh, were up pretty late, kissing.” They’d made out like teenagers for literal hours. “So I made him spend the night.” She nods. “He uh, he stayed with me. But nothing happened. We just, you know, cuddled and fell asleep.”

“How do you feel, now that all that’s happened?”

“Good, mostly. Worried still. This is going to be a lot. But I--I don’t think I mind?”

Patricia smiles again. “Good.”

 

-

 

It’s amazing how little changes. They still play well, rag at each other, bump shoulders. Troy makes fun of Kent’s height, Kent makes fun right back. They watch movies and tape and shitty reality TV at each other’s places. It just usually ends with kissing, now. There are more little touches. Kent doesn’t sleep in the white guestroom much anymore.

But it’s just sleeping. He doesn’t know if he’s ready for more, yet. When they’re kissing, Kent sliding into Troy’s lap, Troy gets hard. But he never asks; seems perfectly content to let Kent go at his own pace. Kent’s grateful for it, because for him sex with someone he cares about...it’s a lot. It’s harder. He worries.

“And it’s so stupid,” he tells Patricia, “because I want to, you know? I want to...give him that.”

“Alright, so what’s holding you back, do you think?”

Kent stares at his knees. “I don’t know. I like him. I think he’s hot. I _want_ to. But when I think about actually going further than just kissing I…” It’s not a good feeling.

“You’re allowed to not be ready.”

“I know. I’m--I’m allowed to make decisions that are good for me.” He crosses his legs, uncrosses them. “I wish I could. I want to. I want to be able to.”

“You said he hasn’t pressured you.”

“Right. Yeah.” He rakes a hand through his hair. “He’s not--He’s been great. He doesn’t even ask.”

“So it sounds like this is something you should talk about with him.”

Kent sighs. More talking. “I knew you’d say that.”

 

-

 

When Kent gets an idea into his head, even one he doesn’t particularly like, he tends to just go for it. So the next time Troy is over, both of them tucked up together on the couch, Kent opens his mouth and comes out with, “I want to have sex with you, but I don’t think I’m ready yet.”

“Okay,” Troy says easily. And, when Kent doesn’t say anything else, “Did you want to talk about that more, or did you want to watch Men In Black?”

Kent wants to watch Men In Black. 

“Okay,” Troy says again. “Do you...do you want me to keep touching you right now?”

“Yes,” Kent say immediately. “Yeah. Please.”

Troy smiles, pulls him even closer. “Okay.”

 

-

 

Kent keeps taking his meds. He doesn’t want to tempt fate by going off them. He sees Patricia, but they’re down to once a week and sometimes Kent decides he can skip a week. He spends a lot of time with Troy and it’s…

He’s happy.

-

 

One night, they’ve gone to bed early; not necessarily to sleep. Troy is over Kent, bracketing him with his arms as they kiss and Kent feels good. Good enough that he rolls them over, tongue immediately going to the hollow of Troy’s neck as he skates a hand down Troy’s bare chest, then reaches lower.

“Kent,” Troy gasps, pushing up a little, “What--”

Kent hovers his palm over Troy’s clothed dick, not quite touching. “Is this okay?”

“Fuck, yes, of course, but Kent, you--you know you don’t have to.”

He wants to. “I want to.”

Troy’s head thunks back to pillow as Kent works him out of his boxers. He’s hard; he usually is, when they’re kissing. It used to make Kent feel nervous, then desired, and now it makes him feel brave. He licks his palm and goes to work, reveling in every one of Troy’s gasp and grunts.

“Kent,” Troy says, “Kent, Kent, fuck--”

Kent lifts his head, gives Troy a heavy-lidded grin. “Yeah? You going to come for me?”

 _“Fuck.”_ Troy comes with a groan, and Kent catches his come in his hand. Wiggles over to the edge of the bed to grab some tissues from the nightstand and wipe his hand off. When he turns back to Troy, it’s to see him lying there, dick soft, with one hand over his eyes.

Kent’s nerves rise up. He creeps closer. “Was it okay? I’m--are you--”

“Fuck, Kent.” Troy sounds breathless. “Get over here.”

Relieved, Kent smiles and goes. Troy wraps his arms around him and Kent nuzzles in close.

“Hey,” Troy says quietly. “Do you want me to--”

Kent shakes his head. “No. If that’s okay.”

Troy presses a kiss to his hair. “Of course it is.”

 

-

 

It’s a journey. He’s still traveling it. Is going to keep traveling it.

 

-

 

“Thank you for coming today,” Kent says into all the microphones and cameras. He clenches his hands tight around the podium to keep from fidgeting with his tie. “I wanted to release a statement about my feelings on mental illness. It’s a thing that exists and happens, just like any sickness. And, if not treated properly, it can eat away at you.”

“There are a lot of people out there who feel sick or wrong because they’re mentally ill. Like they’re not good enough, on top of the anxiety or depression or whatever else is hurting them. And so I wanted to start a conversation about that. I’m bi-polar. It means that I have highs and I have lows, and for me, those highs are really high and those lows are really damn low. I take a medication now, that acts as a mood stabilizer to keep me more on track. It doesn’t change who I am as a person, it allows me to _be_ the person I actually am.”

“For those of you who also struggle with mental illness, I want you to know that you’re not alone. That there are plenty of people out there just like you, and just like me. We have lives and loved ones and a lot that’s worth living for. Medication is one of the ways that can help. My medication fixes a chemical imbalance in my brain, in the same way insulin helps a diabetic whose body can’t make it itself.”

“Therapy is another good outlet. Having someone to talk to that isn’t a friend or family member can make it a little easier to do the talking. It kind of sucks, because you have to talk a lot and it doesn’t always make you feel better, but it can help. Having someone listening to you who knows methods to help you work through things.”

“It took me a long, long time to seek help. I was ashamed, and angry, and I didn’t think it was worth it because no one would be able to fix me.”

“And no one can. Because I’m not broken.”

**Author's Note:**

> I'm [justwritins](http://justwritins.tumblr.com/) on tumblr and I'm total Check, Please trash right now. Come say hi!  
> 


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